66 Day Poetry Habit, Misc Poetry, Poetry

Extra Sexy Points For Brains

I’m going to marry him—
All the men my
Mind has a crush on.
No one finds Aldous
Huxley as hot as I do
Nor wants to share the
Bed as much with that
Angle-faced man.

-M.
(Day 15 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit)

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66 Day Poetry Habit, Anti Love Poetry, Poetry

I’m Really a Nice Lady

I respect you less because
You love me unconditionally

I don’t respect you at all

You went in for a kiss and
I gave you my neck

Enough perfume to keep
You panting for another year

As if you needed a reason, dog-
-ed devotion is an un-sexy face

You let me shatter you
And I shatter you

A matter of course like college boys becoming
Sadistic prison guards when

Given the go-on by closet sadistic
Psychiatrists in the name of a science

Doomed to perpetual infancy, grow
A pair

And some hair and tell me to
My face I’m a bitch

Be a goddamned man
Stop dotting your hearts with

I… I… I… am not worth it
Have made myself not worth it

On purpose you shake
My linear foundations

One pulsing emotion that you are
I look down on you

for that too.

-M.
(Day 6 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit)

Humor, Love Poems, Poetry

Controlled Substances (NaPoMo Day 4)

My pharmacist’s assistant boyfriend
gained weight.
It brings us closer as our fingers
touch over the Hydrocodone
and our wrinkles show
and our noses shine
under the fluorescent lights.

I say in a low voice
You know they’re for my mother.

He leans forward and says
so gently
I know. I remember you.

I tell him they’re for my mother every time
to prompt his sweet nothing.
I am unashamed. I flounce
out of the pharmacy with my narcotics
and swing my hips with purpose.

-M.

(I’m starting a little late for National Poetry Month’s 30 in 30. I owe you three. I’m on it.)

God Poems, Love Poems, Poetry

Lie

One fourteen-year-old lies
in another’s lap face-up
squeezing the pimples on her
I’ll-die-for-you-sweetheart’s scabby
sunburned face.

I lie
with you, naked back to the earth
dug deep
moist and freshly turned
picking the teeth of a death trap.

-M.

Love Poems, Poetry

The House on Doheny

I saw you bought that house I loved
on the hill, off IS9larv01mt5zs1000000000Doheny, hard to get to

during rush hour or when the veins of LA
burst and bleed all over West Hollywood

up Sunset
and gush through the Bel Air gates.

The skin of my inner wrists
with her oxygen-blue undertones

(soft contemporary design)
is up for sale too.

Ten million or best offer
(like the house on Doheny)

plus, realistically, another million or so
to meet your execting standards.

How deep, my Darling,
are your lightless pockets?

-M.